On the triteness of the “yellow fever” and “Asian fetish” clichés.
“When poets speak of death, they call it the place without breasts.”
I am drawn to the seedy establishments, poorly lit portals to the underworld, busy inside with silent activity, chess games of intimate squalor.
As obsessed with massage as Malays are, they delegate the business to the Chinese.
The Japanese have come up with a means of catering to women who wish to act out exhibitionist massage fantasies.
The guilty customer, I displayed the sardonic coat of arms on my clothing for all to see.
“Money is just money. But sexual companionship is priceless.”